Gaslight Arcanum: Uncanny Tales of Sherlock Holmes

by Kim Newman

  I nodded, showing him my medical bag.

  “Splendid, then we shall begin.” Holmes took me over to a flat slab of stone, a place for him to rest as I carried out his request. He placed the lamp beside him so that I could see.

  “Holmes, are you quite sure about this…? I still do not understand why—”

  He silenced me with a raised finger. “Please proceed. I know that I am in the most capable hands.”

  Sighing, I took out a hypodermic and a vial, siphoning off a massive dose of my concoction. Holmes, for his part, rolled up his sleeve. I saw the cost of his experimentations; red welts on his arm, dotting the lines of his veins. I frowned, but said nothing, instead taking up his arm to give him the injection: quite possibly the last I might ever administer to him.

  As the needle sank into his flesh, Holmes reached over and patted my hand gently. Neither of us said a thing as he shut his eyes and waited for the drug to take effect. I sat there and noted the look of complete peace on Holmes’ face; it was the first and only time I have seen him look so content.

  I took his wrist and felt for a pulse. It was still there, but faint.

  “I never got the chance to tell you this before, Holmes…” I whispered, still keeping hold of his wrist as the beats slowed. “But thank you. Thank you for everything…”

  And, suddenly, the beating ended.

  I bowed my head, choking back the wave of emotion I felt at seeing my companion as dead as those corpses I had examined after the murders. Then I felt it, a sudden jolt — so fierce I almost let go of Holmes’ wrist. I wonder now if I would have seen what followed had I done so, for I firmly believe it was the physical connection to Holmes, at the moment his spirit departed his body, that allowed me to bear witness to what transpired. Yes, that is correct — you did not read wrongly. I can finally unburden myself of the knowledge of what happened in those ensuing seconds. It is an unspoken memory I have carried with me now for so very long…

  A shape began to coalesce beside the slab, indistinct at first and shimmering — but as I blinked, refocusing on it, a familiarity began to reveal itself. A head, then shoulders, arms, legs … it was a body, transparent but glowing white. Eventually it took its true form. It turned to look at me, and it was then that I saw the unmistakable visage of none other than Holmes himself. He mouthed something upon seeing me, but I could not hear him at that point and was too much in shock to reply anyway. I wondered whether Holmes had somehow infected me with his madness, for this must surely be what it felt like to experience insanity.

  The fog parted, close by, and began swirling round, taking on a form itself. It was difficult to separate the darkness beyond our lamp and the glow of Holmes’ spirit from that which was bending the mist to its will. I soon realized my mistake, however, because again this was not a thing of our world. It was nebulous in appearance, mist-like though not of the mist enveloping us. The only reason I could see it at all was because of my physical connection to Holmes.

  It too settled on a form eventually: tall and black, wearing what looked like robes but not from any material known to man; rather fashioned from the same miasma as the rest of it. Its hands, when it reached out, were in contrast white and thin, almost bone-like but lacking substance. A finger shot out from the robe, pointing at my companion’s shade.

  And its voice, when it spoke, sounded like thousands of voices speaking at once in my mind. “Sherlock Holmes,” it stated simply. “I have come for you.”

  All the times he had cheated Death, in particular that celebrated occasion at the Reichenbach Falls, and now I feared that it had sought Holmes out — all because I had ended his life. And Holmes was right, there was a distinctive smell; it was one I recognized all too readily from my time serving abroad, and my career as a doctor on these shores.

  “No,” I heard my friend say then, in a voice that was his, but not his. “I have come for you.”

  There was silence then, as if the creature in front of Holmes did not quite know how to reply. That silence was filled eventually by an explanation of sorts.

  “It wasn’t quite enough for you, was it?” Holmes continued abruptly. “Taking lives like this. It wasn’t … satisfying.” He uttered the last word with all the contempt it deserved. “You have watched for so long as we have found new ways to kill one another. Watched and come for us when needed. All the while wondering what it might be like to actually kill, to tighten a cord until the last gasp of air emerged from a mouth, to plunge a knife through someone’s heart until it beat no longer, to hack a child to…” Holmes paused. “I saw your pattern, you see. This isn’t the first time you have slipped inside; you’ve worked your way through battlefields, have you not, choosing those who would not readily be missed. The poor, the destitute. I have seen them all… They told me what you have done. Yet that was not enough for you. The sweetest sensation, the longest and strongest high of all, comes from the murder of a loved one. To feel the connection severed at your hands. Your very hands!”

  Listening to Holmes’ explanation, something I have done on many occasions at the conclusion of a case, everything fell into place. The reason why Miss Cartwright’s cousin, Simon, had done what he did — the reason those others did the same. It was a disturbing revelation to say the least.

  “You dare to pass judgment on me?” came the voice that was a thousand voices, almost screeching the reply. It was filled with indignation that Holmes was even talking to it.

  “When your actions result in…” Holmes’ spirit looked over again at where the family from the train had their plot. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

  There was a snarl from the black mist-like shape, and it flung itself forward, just as Holmes had done back in Baker Street after wallowing in depression and indulging too much in his seven percent solution. The intent was different here, however, and we could both see it.

  The shape raised both hands, in an effort to grab Holmes, to take him back with it, to drag him away and undo his very existence. I wished there was something I could do… But there was! I could bring Holmes back as he had instructed. We knew the identity of the killer, we just could not do anything about it — and never would be able to, I suspected.

  It was time to administer the antidote and restart Holmes’ heart.

  He looked sideways and could see what I was about to do. “Not yet, Watson,” he cried, then those hands grabbed him and Holmes was grappling with Death.

  “You… have been … with me … every step of the way…” Holmes grunted as he struggled with his fearsome foe. “But even … you should know … there are consequences … to one’s actions…”

  Something was happening behind me. I took my eyes off the spectral pair, to glance around. More shapes in the mist, breaking through in fact: one after the other. It did not take them as long as Holmes or Death to form; they had been waiting for this moment and they were eager to strike. Here were there the victims of Death’s atrocious crimes, Judith Hatten, Mr. Thorndyke, the husband and child murdered on the Waterloo Train, but also there were those who had been so tormented by their involuntary actions that they had taken their own lives — and, I had to wonder, given a helpful push by Death? So there followed Simon, Mrs. Thorndyke, the mother who’d turned that fire axe on her beloved husband and child, and more besides. I watched as those Holmes had spoken about, the earlier victims, both the murderers and the suicides gone unnoticed, unreported — the ones who had told Holmes their tales — all came marching through the mist. These were also joined by those who’d been lost during the last few weeks, while Holmes had been attempting to get to the bottom of the mystery: the ones Lestrade had not been able to keep from the morning editions. They marched through that graveyard as one, a spectral army converging on Death, all craving revenge.

  The black figure — whose face was still unclear to me, and I would imagine to Holmes — turned towards them, letting go of my friend. The horde encircled Death, crowding in and raining down blows that I did not think would have any effect
, but evidently did. They were backed by the power of those trapped between life and … and whatever was on the other side. It suddenly dawned on me then exactly why Holmes had wanted to wait a day. It was October 31st, All Hallows’ Eve — the time of year when these spirits would be at their most powerful.

  “Now, Watson!” shouted Holmes, limping away from the scene. “Bring me back now!”

  I snapped out of my daze, not wanting to let go of Holmes’ hand because I wished to witness the last of this, wanted to see Death’s end. But, of course, I should have known that Death is never, ever truly gone. How could it be? It is the other side to the coin of life. I saw the dark figure being smothered by the ghosts, then let go and watched as the vision faded. As I worked — injecting Holmes with the antidote, then pounding on his chest to get his heart beating again, I heard a faint voice. A voice made up of so many more. “We will meet again,” Death promised Holmes, “and not even your friend will be able to save you then.” The words filled me with dread.

  I couldn’t see the ‘spirit Holmes’ any more, couldn’t see any evidence of the battle that had taken place, but that did not matter to me at that time. I beat on Holmes’ chest one final time, and he sat bolt upright, taking in a lungful of night air. He began to cough, though whether it was the result of coming back or the fog still surrounding us, I had no clue. I held on to him anyway, until he was strong enough to sit up on his own. “Rest a little, Holmes,” I warned him.

  “I’m… I’m fine,” he told me. “Thank you, Watson.” And he clasped my arm.

  I nevertheless had to half carry my friend through the graveyard and through the fog, into a more public place where we could hail a cab to return us to the relative safety, and sanity, of Baker Street.

  Holmes spent the next few days recuperating, enjoying the ministrations of both myself and Mrs. Hudson. When Lestrade called on us once more, I was able to inform him of the conclusion of the case. “You should not see any more deaths like those,” I assured him. I could not promise him the madness of the population would not continue, as indeed it did in the final days of the 19th century until everyone was certain the world would not end. Of the murders committed by loved ones and subsequent suicides, there were no more. Due note had obviously been taken of the repercussions. As I already mentioned, the matter was put down to the singular time of the year and our calendar. I would not be pressed further on what had been amiss with those people, in spite of Lestrade demanding answers from both myself and later from Holmes. For one thing, I did not know where to start; for another I was positive he would have us both committed if we spoke of what we’d uncovered. Nor did Holmes and I talk about what had happened and what we had seen that day. To do so seemed somehow to invite the premature return of the culprit.

  So you see, it is only now, with my friend passed on and myself nearing the end of my years, that I am committing this to paper. Even now, I doubt very much whether it shall see the light of day. Instead it will probably be dismissed, I fancy, as a work of fiction less credible even than those by Mr. Stoker or Mr. Verne. The final ramblings of an aged adventurer.

  But I know the truth.

  Holmes once spoke about his greatest foe without realizing it, long before he ever encountered the thing, during a case a long time ago. The Adventure of the Six Napoleons I believe it was, though my memory is waning, I must confess. He was in the mortuary then, not the graveyard, but he mused: “I am just contemplating the one mystery I cannot solve. Death itself.” How prophetic those words would turn out to be.

  Because although he may have prevented more innocents from going the way of Judith Hatten and the others, spared future ‘murderers’ from the blame and guilt of something they had not done, Holmes had far from solved the mystery of exactly what Death was — nor what happens when we take our final breath.

  The spectre had been right, of course. It had seen Holmes again, and to my everlasting regret I had not been able to save him. But that is a story for another time…

  * * * * *

  PAUL KANE is the award-winning author of the novels The Gemini Factor and Of Darkness and Light, plus the post-apocalyptic Robin Hood trilogy Arrowhead, Broken Arrow and Arrowland. His non-fiction books are The Hellraiser Films and Their Legacy and Voices in the Dark, and he is the co-editor of anthologies like Hellbound Hearts and Terror Tales. His work has been optioned for film and in 2008 his story ‘Dead Time’ was turned into an episode of the NBC/LionsGate TV series Fear Itself, adapted by Steve (30 Days of Night) Niles, directed by Darren (SAW II-IV) Lynn Bousman. Paul also scripted a film version of his story ‘The Opportunity’, which premiered at the Cannes Film Festival.

  The House of Blood

  by Tony Richards

  He knew the man was real, but Lieutenant Vince Capaldi could scarcely believe it. That famous narrow face, framed against the background of a hotel window, with its hooked nose and very watchful eyes.

  “My God,” he breathed. “You can’t have aged a day since Victorian times.”

  Holmes nodded.

  “So you really are immortal?”

  “I found it out after the Reichenbach Falls, when I suddenly returned to life with no sensible explanation. A definite case in point, Lieutenant—” and the great detective favoured him with a quirky half-smile— “of the last remaining solution to a puzzle, however improbable, being the correct one. I never thought that I would turn out to be the most striking example of that adage.”

  “And now,” he went on quickly, “what is this murder you have come to me about?”

  Capaldi’s eyes widened. “I never said anything about any…”

  “You have been wearing tight latex gloves recently,” Holmes pointed out. “I doubt that you would do that for a mugging. There is a smear of luminol on the edge of your left shoe, a substance for detecting blood. And the gravity of your expression speaks of no lesser a crime than murder most foul.”

  “In fact,” he continued before the policeman could break in, “I would hazard you have come to me about a fourth in the series of killings that began last week. I’ve, naturally, been following them on the TV news and in the press. And let me hazard at something else. Something you have contrived to keep from the newshounds and the general public. All the victims so far have been completely drained of their vital essence.”

  The color disappeared from the lieutenant’s features, his mouth falling open.

  “Luminol, my good fellow, is used to find mere trace elements of blood. So why would you use it around a freshly murdered human corpse except to discern if there was any blood at all?”

  When he saw that he had rendered the man speechless, Holmes allowed himself another little smile.

  “You’re as bad as Lestrade,” he commented. “You mean well, but you do not really think.”

  Then he encouraged his visitor to bring him up to date on the whole situation.

  Stammering, Capaldi tried to get his thoughts together. He went over what had happened to the first victim. A certain Harriet Ellison, of Boise, Idaho, who was still fresh in his memory. She had won a massive jackpot from a slot machine ten days ago, been photographed with her reward, and then become surrounded by well-wishers and hangers-on with whom she had been partying. Halfway through the evening, she had headed off to the restrooms, only to mysteriously vanish. Her corpse, clad merely in its underwear, had been found in the desert on the edge of town next morning.

  Lawrence Mark of Trenton, New Jersey, had been the next one. His case followed the same pattern. After a huge run of luck, at the craps tables, he had disappeared, only for it to be proved that he had suffered the same fate.

  Daniel Besset of Oxford, Maryland, had been the third. He had recently won sixty thousand dollars, by means of his skill at Texas Hold’em.

  This much, Sherlock Holmes already knew.

  “And the last?” he prompted.

  “Just this morning. Hasn’t even made the papers yet. Kyle Monoghan from Boston, Mass.”

  “And h
e had won at?”

  “Blackjack. According to the witnesses, it was a pretty amazing run of luck.”

  “Do you have a picture of the fellow?” Holmes enquired calmly.

  Capaldi was aware of the detective’s reputation, and had come prepared. He took a glossy photo from the inside pocket of his coat and handed it over, then watched with quiet awe as Holmes studied the thing. It had been taken at the crime scene, Monoghan sprawled out in the desert dirt.

  One of Holmes’ narrow eyebrows lifted just a touch, but that was all.

  “Let me make sure that I have got this straight. Nothing whatsoever connects the victims, not in terms of gender, age, hometown, occupation, or ethnicity. They were not even kidnapped from the same casino. The single thing that does connect them is that Lady Luck smiled on them beneficently shortly before they met their fate.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And were their winnings taken?”

  The lieutenant nodded. “Every time.”

  “Which would mark these cases as a simple string of murder-robberies. Except that…”

  Each of the victims had been stripped practically naked and drained completely of their blood, by means of punctures at the throat and wrists. They’d already established that.

  “My guys are calling them ‘The Vampire Killings,’” Capaldi let slip.

  “There are no such creatures,” Holmes assured him. “Reports that have tried to pit me against Mr. Stoker’s Transylvanian Count are much exaggerated.”

  He paused for a few moments, lost in thought.

  “Very well. I shall take the case. But I’ll require a fee.”

  “My chief has already okayed it.”

  Holmes grunted approvingly before turning his attention from Capaldi to the scene beyond his window. The flashing lights, the dreamlike outlines of the different hotels, the churning throng on the sidewalks below.

  “Just out of interest, Mr. Holmes,” he heard Capaldi venture, “what exactly do you think of Vegas?”